Businesscard Ash
by August Melodies
Summary: Dean Winchester has met the woman five times, and he still can't tell if it's blood or lipstick smeared on her cheek. Or where the hell her accent is from.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sorry I've been away for so long. This is not a one shot. I promise. I'll be back for more.**

**Review. Please. I'm already halfway through the second chapter, I swear I'll post it after a good review. ****If you review/follow/etc. then I'll definitely check out ur page and stuff.**

**Also: looking for a beta!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, I would not be writing fanfiction about it.**

The first time he sees her, he's in a broken-down house, facing the Seven Deadly Sins (he still capitalizes the S and D and S mentally, doesn't quite know why.) He's in a corner, because Tamara _the fucking idiot let the goddamn Biblical sins in_ opened the door and broke the salt line and they all came exploding in, him and Bobby and Sam breaking back and retreating to their prescribed places, with Devil Traps and buckets of holy water and salt shells on standby. He's already dunked Lust, or at least he assumes it was her, and now he's backing up because _god damn_ he's cornered and there's not much he can do, and the ceiling devil's trap is broken and he's clenching a knife and trying to remember the exorcism. _I will not die here, now, because a stupid hunter chick messed up_, he thinks, and mentally curses Tamara. Not for the first time, today.

And then there's a crashing sound and a shard of glass hits him in the hand, cuts into his palm and coats it with blood, and he looks over to his left with a quiet curse and sees a window broken. He looks back fast at the demons, who (very surprisingly) haven't made a move yet, and then back at the window, expecting another Sin, or at least a human enchanted by them— but all he sees is _fire,_ suddenly appearing on the frame, on the broken glass inside the window. He jumps back to his glaring position facing the Sins as the window remains quiet, backs away from the flames and keeps one foot slightly to the side, ready to turn and fight whatever monster comes through.

And then there are coal-darkened knuckles curling over the top of the sill and this _woman_ vaults in, and at first all he can see is her face, slightly surprised and still coated with a smug smirk. And then her hand is reaching down into her boot, slowly and deliberately, and he could swear there's not a single person breathing in this room. He shoots a glance back at the Sins (he's still capitalizing the S, and it's annoying him), and backs up, appreciating the distraction.

Her hand snaps out of her boot, and she pulls out a goddamn water gun and shoots the left bastard once, twice, three times, and it screams so loudly he knows it's holy water. And her other hand has suddenly produced a knife and it is flying into the middle one and— holy _shit._ The middle Sin is on fire, spreading out from the area that the knife hit, and it's screaming. Meanwhile, the woman is spinning past him: literally, spinning, with her hair (black and curled) bouncing in the hot room. She stops and taps him on the shoulder, lightly, with two fingers. 'Sweetheart? Run.'

Her lipstick, he takes in, is dark red, and her accent is a slow, drawling mix between New York and some variety of English accents. She widens her eyes and pops her fingers out, like she's about to surprise him, and then she's turning away with a thickly accented 'I mean it.' He can't quite place her accent, and it annoys him. A lot of things annoy him, these days, because if he gets angry it means something or someone is dead.

And then she's pushing him out through the doorway, and there are two Sins left, and he looks and sees her stab one and push the other against the wall with her hand against its throat, and he doesn't know who she is, and for some reason that's only coming to him now. And he doesn't know this woman, fiery and but he sort of wants to kiss her and he sort of wants to punch her and he sort of wants to yell 'fuck it all' and go back in and finish off the demons, but there's a yell from the other side of the house and his mind goes straight to _Sam Sam Sam_ and he's off, back into the gear he's found where he can run forever.

And then he's bursting into the room where Sam is, and he's shooting and salting and drenching the Sins in that room as Sam coughs out exorcisms, and then he's dragging Sam back _somewhere _and then they're all in the living room, him and Sam and Bobby and Tamara. And there's a scream, inhuman, and he looks over and the left wing of the house is on fire, and the woman comes walking into the room from over there, eyebrows raised and boots clacking.

"Well? Aren't ya gonna say thank you?" she says, with a gently biting grin, and looks Dean in the eye, recognizes him as a. "Well. Here's my card." She has a small businesscard in the palm of her hand, metal-edged and covered with neat black-inked words, and she flips it over to Bobby. _There's Boston in there, too,_ he thinks to himself; her accent is rolling and dragging itself over the words, careless and cocky.

And then the woman is giving Tamara a nod and shaking her hair over one shoulder, and with a smaller, clean knife, she puts it up in a bun. Like a messy pencil one, only with a knife hilt grazing her neck. Like it's the most natural, thoughtless and careless thing in the world for her, pressing a knife, a weapon, to the back of her head and using it like a hair tie or a pencil.

And then she's walking through them, pushing past Sam and Tamara, towards the window, and he wants to stop her and make her say something, anything, explain herself, who is she. He's angry now, and confused, and the fact that she saved his life is barely even factoring in anymore because _she walked into the middle of a fucking hunt with a knife that lights demons on fire and now she's acting like it's every day._

But then she puts her hands on the window and backflips through it, and suddenly the frame is on fire and bloodless (why? shouldn't she be bleeding, injured?), and she's gone when he makes it down to the ground, even when Bobby checks for tracks and finds the sunstruck grass covered with ash and another goddamn business card laying neatly next to the house.

He wonders about her for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow! One review already! ok so just fyi i love u and i love y'all!**

**taking requests for episodes y'all want to see in this piece! thx for feedback! also i swear i will post the next chapter either tomorrow or friday.**

**Look up Ferguson y'all. Fuck Darren Wilson**

**Disclaimer: I dont own this ok**

The second time he sees her, he's embroiled in a mission: find the rabbit's foot that that stupid damn girl took, and _burn it_ or lock it away or something. He doesn't notice her at first, too focused on the apartment, on the rabbit's foot and his mission, but then she's there in a tank top and skinny jeans, and a gun is pointing at him. He doesn't quite recognize her at first, because she's straightened her hair and dyed the ends a deep red, but then she tells him, "What the hell are ya doing in my apartment?" and her damn accent, thick as ever, is rolling through his head and he remembers— oh! of course! she's the one from the Sins hunt. (He's now making an active effort to decapitalize the 'S', but it's not ending well.)

But he's got to put on a face, so he raises his eyebrows incredulously and says, 'Wait. You're Bela Tell-whatever?" And she looks at him again, with that slightly surprised face she wore when she jumped through the window, with raised eyebrows and her tongue sticking out slightly through her teeth, looking for all the world like she's going to start laughing, and _goddamn_ does it ever annoy him.

"Oh my god." Her accent stretches out the first word and compresses the second two together, cutting off the end of the 'god'. She laughs silently to herself, shoulders hunching up and eyes shutting. "You actually thought I was— Bela!" She turns slightly to the side, gesturing with the gun-less hand and beckoning towards a room, through a slightly opaque window. "You got company!" He leans to the left, tries to see around her, and when he sees a shape move through the window, and he's struck with a pulsing, irrational fear. _Who is Bela? _What _is Bela?_

He tries to step away, and she cocks the gun. She's tapping one boot (in boots but without a proper shirt? Really?) on the floor now, and he notices exactly how pointy and metallic the heels are. It looks like she's inserted knives into the back of her boots, and he doesn't realize he's said it out loud, that she's listening and has turned around, until he hears a laugh, and one final tap of the boot, and she says, "Nah. Not knives. Not conventional ones, at least," and he jolts his head up and raises his eyebrows, as she lowers the gun minutely.

"So, what brings ya here today?" Her lipstick is pale this time, standing out against her dark skin, and he notices it. He shouldn't be noticing it, but he does. He wishes he didn't.

"None of your—" he starts, and then she begins to laugh, shoulders down and head back, hair moving over her left shoulder. "Fuck you," he pronounces with his eyes looking everywhere but her own.

"Bit eager, aren't we?" She smirks, and he hates her suddenly. "It is my damn business, because this is my apartment. Bela's too, 'course. Which reminds me. Whaddaya want with Bela? Oh." And suddenly she's pouting, fakely, everything screaming amusement and smugness except for her pursed lips. "And watch your fucking mouth. You're in the presence of a lady."

And then she's walking towards him, with the gun still cocked, and he decides _time to get the fuck out_, and so he backs up only to find— a locked door? He knows he didn't lock it behind him; hell, he doesn't even remember closing it. And so he tries to turn and break the door, pick the lock or blow it, and then he feels her arrive, the sound of her footsteps halting, and suddenly she is beside him with fingernails digging into his side through his shirt and her gun to his head. He tries to reach down, to grab his gun, and she grabs his wrist and snaps it close to his side.

There is a pause, and then a door next to the opaque window opens and Bela Talbot— he knows it is Bela because of the woman's friendly greeting of 'Bels!'— is in a cocktail dress and curled hair and is pointing a gun at his face; he knows he should be more afraid but all he can think is _thank fuck she's human,_ and he has to laugh slightly at that.

And then the woman is stepping back from him, and looking at Bela, and it takes him a while to process the fact that there is nobody holding onto him anymore. And the moment he realizes it, he draws a gun and takes off, running, the gun pointing back at the two women.

He turns to look at them and sees Bela hand the other woman a knife, and then he flips his head around to run faster. He hears a slight whistling and then suddenly there is a knife in his wrist, and he bites down and resists the urge to scream because _shit_ that hurt, and the woman is running after him and then—

_You forgot about her fire-knives,_ he berates himself, because now his shirt is on fire and he's almost positive that his flesh is too, the cloth and the skin burning and searing each other. And he wants to stop but he keeps running, to fucking _get away, _and then he sees the door in front of him slam and he knocks into it. He turns around with tears in his eyes, stumbling, shakes his arm to try and extinguish it, and then tries to tear the shirt off to _save himself_ because he can really feel it now, licking up his arm and tearing a hole in his shirt, heating and blistering his skin. He closes his eyes, tries to ignore the pain and get the shirt off.

And then he hears her approach, and then the woman with dark skin and dark hair and the fiery knives is uttering a slow stream of curses and pulling the knife out of his arm, resting her hand on the wound, and he thinks it's gone numb but he's not sure, because when she pulls her hand away he's not on fire anymore, his skin feels raw but not blistered, and his shirt is charred and cold.

And he raises his eyebrows and looks up, because he's afraid to look anywhere else, and then he sees it. The rabbits foot.

And he's still wearing the glove he intended to wear, coming in here, and so he grabs the foot without thinking and brandishes it in front of him, threatening, finally in control of the situation. Bela and the woman take a step back, instinctively, and move closer together. And he's walking forward, stumbling slightly, when the woman's phone rings.

And the woman picks it up, and her face clenches, and she starts talking, fast and furious, in a language that he doesn't recognize. And then the woman (she's tall, especially in those heels) nods at Bela, and puts a hand on her waist and pulls Bela up for a soft kiss, and then she walks out of the fucking room. Thirty seconds later she's walking back in with purse over her shoulder, probably designer, and he can see a gun sticking out of it. And for some reason, she starts walking towards them, and Bela brandishes her gun with eyebrows raised at him, and so he does all he can.

He whispers 'think fast' and smirks to himself and launches the rabbit foot at Bela Talbot, and it hits her in the hand and she catches it. Bela looks at him, genuinely surprised, and he swears he hears her say 'fuck' softly.

The moment is ruined as the woman pushes in between them and nods to Bela. Nods to him, with that slightly surprised look on her face, eyebrows up and mouth gently smirking. And she has a business card in her right hand, and he could swore it just appeared there, and so she walks over to the stand where the rabbit's foot was and carefully places the business card there, and looks to the right, the left, back to Bela and back to him, and her mouth is turned in an open smirk as she raises her hand and waves.

And then she's swinging through a window that he's ninety-percent sure wasn't there thirty seconds ago, and it's on fire, and _holy shit_ the building is burning down, and he is almost positive Bela's already left but she hasn't, and he finds the strength to wink and say 'still sure you don't want to destroy it?' and so they leave. Quickly.

He makes it out alive. Barely.

He fucking hates the fiery woman, with her lipstick and blood and business cards. He hates the business card woman.

He's sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time he sees her she's in a bar, in a skirt that reaches halfway down her thighs, a strapless red tank top, and a leather jacket. She's flirting with a man, a blonde one with long hair, and he overhears a fraction of their conversation ("-yeah, been in venture capital-") before

Her hair is back to its original black, curling and falling and exploding down her back, tastefully tangled and messy, and because he's in a bar, in full-on 'get-laid' mode, he has a sudden jumpy urge to flirt with her, to kiss her or fuck her.

But then he remembers her knife in his wrist, and his skin twitches and he wants to scream, and he wonders when he became so swingy, so prone to polar switches in mood. He orders a vodka, on the rocks, and winks at the bartender and without thinking he sits down next to her and immediately regrets it.

Because then she turns around with swinging hair, eyes wide, and there it is again, the stupid surprised look with parted lips and wide eyes and her hair still falling over her right shoulder that melds seamlessly into a smirk. She calls the bartender over with two fingers and orders drinks for both of them, and when he glares down into his drink, she laughs and punches his shoulder gently. "It's not poisoned, I swear," she laughs, and he can't tell if it's the alcohol or the atmosphere or the accent that pushes its way to the front of her speech that's slurring the words together.

(He says that she punches him gently, but it leaves a light bruise.)

She looks back to the guy she was talking to earlier and then they're kissing, and he's digging his nails into his palm because he can't quite decide what to do.

He'd be justified to stab her, he knows, but not here in this crowded bar.

He'd be justified to follow the blonde guy and her home, and to tell the blonde to fuck off, and to ask her _what the fuck_ she was doing at a bar, and then have an accidental heart to heart.

He might even be justified to kiss her, if the venture capitalist goes away. But he pushes that thought away.

First, the Businesscard Woman saved his life. Then, she stabbed him and kissed Bela Talbot (who is, by the way, a total bitch.) _What the fuck is he supposed to think of her now?_

Somewhere in-between then and now, he started to call her the Businesscard Woman, because he still doesn't know her name. He thinks about asking for it for a bit. Downs the drink and a few more after that one.

He's drunk and annoyed, and he barely notices at first when the blonde guy bumps into him, because the Businesscard Woman is leading him out. But then he looks up and sees him leaning on her shoulder (she's tall, especially in— fuck. she's wearing those damn metal-heeled boots again) and her hand on the man's ass, in his back pocket, and he feels himself drink the rest of his beer and stand up. (He's not quite sure when he got the beer, or half the other drinks he's had tonight, for that matter.)

He tells himself, loudly, over and over again, that he's just doing this to save the man, because the Businesscard Woman is dangerous and possibly, probably, not human. His hand beats the rhythm of his thoughts into his jeans as he follows the two, feeling slightly guilty and slightly righteous and mostly just…. he doesn't know. _Mostly,_ he thinks, _this will be a bad idea, and I'm not quite sure why I'm do— to _save _the _guy, he reminds himself. _That's why I'm following them._

He sees them kissing in the alley near a cheap and dingy motel (his motel, actually), sees the guy whisper something in her ear, sees her laugh with her eyes down, and shoulders up, blushing (it was cute, but he didn't want to say that), sees the venture capitalist guy pulling her towards the door—

And then she turns around, he doesn't know why, and manages to pick his face and eyes out in the middle of the dim-dark street, and she winks at him and gives him that _fucking_ smugly surprised face. He should do something, he knows, but all he can think about is that her face was _glowing_, lit gently in the night.

They're kissing, again, and the Businesscard Woman reaches her hand into the man's back pocket, and they're pressed up against the side of the building with him biting sloppy kisses into her neck, and suddenly she takes her hand out of his pocket and her phone starts to ring.

She picks up the phone and pushes him off her gently, with wide eyes and an apologetic pout, and then she's talking fast into the phone and pushing the guy away, mouthing something fast at the guy and waving quickly, and the venture capitalist goes… mad. He grabs the phone and tosses it away, lets it skitter across the pavement, and the guy is pressing her up against the wall again with his face moving towards hers when she grabs his wrist and twists it hard, fast, and presses her fingers into his shoulder and her other hand on his cheek. He hears the man scream, loud, try and push her away desperately.

He knows he should help the man but for some godforsaken reason he can't bring himself to move.

He sees smoke rising up from the man's shoulder, and the Businesscard Woman calmly places a hand on his chest and pushes him away; he sees the man run away, fast, trying to hold his shoulder and chest and face, burning and bleeding and (he thinks) crying. She walks into the motel adjusting her shirt, swaying like she's drunk (although he's pretty sure she's not), and he's not quite sure when he stopped following her to save the man. Because he's walking right behind her, and the desk guy barely spares the two of them a glance and a chuckle before waving them towards the elevators.

He's not sure what to say when they're in the elevator, hoping she'll talk first, because it's quite obvious that this is leading up to something and he's not sure what. He looks over and sees her applying lipstick, checking her makeup in the mirror. Her eyes slide over and up and she sees his reflection, and then they go back down and she's adjusting her jacket.

"Ain't you supposed to be the protector of justice? Defender of the weak?" Her voice sounds, and it's quiet, too soft for the snarky tone it's spoken in. He wonders if it's the only tone she has.

The elevator door dings, and he steps out with her walking alongside him, pulling him towards her room.

"Hmm?" He replies, just to fill the space because he honestly has _no fucking idea _how he's supposed to reply, and her voice is louder when she speaks this time, opening the door to her room, sitting down on her bed. "Dean Winchester, hero of all the human world, saving the pretty girls and the rest of the planet. Yeah?"

It's a simple yes-or-no question, but all he can think of is that she knows his name, and he says, "What's yours?" before he realizes how out-of-context it sounds, and adds "your name, I mean." And just so he can cover all his bases, he adds a "and that's better then what you do" to the end, before realizing how fucked up his end of conversation has been so far. He clamps his lips together, looking at her.

She looks at him, eyebrows raised, and an annoyed and endeared smile on her face. "What've you been calling me, all this time?" Her hand darts into her boot and pulls out a knife and she twirls it through her hair and forms a messy bun. "And what the _fuck_ do you think I do, sweet'eart?" She asks, pausing after the expletive to place extra force on it, giving him a half-smile after the question's over and standing up.

He stays silent because admitting to calling her the Businesscard Woman would be _so. fucking. embarrassing,_ glad he has a second question to answer. "Well, I don't know. First, you show up on a hunt and save my ass—" he's cut off by the sound of her quiet laughter, with hair bouncing over her gently shaking shoulders and lips bent up in a genuine-looking smile.

"Trust me." And he can't help but crack a smile himself at those words, because _why the fuck_ would he trust her? "That bit was totally accidental. But it's nice of ya to credit me. I s'pose I did save your ass."

"I wasn't finished." He tries to assert control over the situation. "First, you hop into the middle of a failing hunt and kill a bunch of demons, then you fucking stab me—" he's only saying all this shit because he is ninety percent sure he'll never see her again, after tonight.

"After you break into my apartment, looking for my girlfriend—"

"and— that _bitch_ was your—" He raised his eyebrows, disbelieving.

"She wasn't a 'bitch'. She had her fucking reasons—" the Businesscard Woman's face is flushing, dark skin reddening and jaw jutting slightly.

"—had her _fucking_ reasons? Well, I suppose you'd know about that bit—"

"And you don't. And you never will. Jealous?" And then she's stepping closer, hand in her hair, pulling out the knife and pushing it into her boot, letting her hair come down and spread out, curling over her shoulders and chest and down her back. "Of me?" and then she smirks, and slides forward even more, so that he can feel her breath on her next words. "Or are you jealous of her?" She slides her head back minutely.

Their faces are too close for comfort, but he can't back away, because that would be losing, so instead he leans in closer, and tries to think of something to say to _win_ this argument, because he knows, at this point, with his forehead against hers and her eyes sparkling, staring into his, saying he doesn't want to fuck her at all would be a _lie, _and a blatantly obvious one at that.

He doesn't hear her at first when she says "You never told me." And then there's a pause where he's trying to figure out what she means without looking away, without losing the staring match, and he's drowning in her eyes, in oceans of brown and black, and he hopes that she's drowning in his. "What the _fuck_ do you think I do?" she pronounces the 'fuck' carefully again, making sure to let him feel the air leave her mouth.

"I'm not quite sure." And he leans down, sarcasm heavy in the air, and lets one hand drag slowly towards her waist, through the air. "Why don't you tell me?"

And then they're kissing, and her mouth is hot and sweet on his, his hand moving onto her waist above the curve of her ass, and he lets his eyes close, drowning in her eyes and mouth and her hands moving, one arm curling around his neck to rest on his shoulders, the other moving around his back to pull him closer, pressing her chest to his, her knees to his. They were, he thought dimly, exactly the same height, and then it's hard for him to react to anything else because she's kissing him with her mouth open, hot and dirty and fiery and without thinking, he bites her lip and she lets out a shaky sound, a short and needy note, before reaching her tongue up to lick his lip and then pull it down between her teeth.

Her arm moves down, slides along his shirt, and her hand pushes the back of his head forward, and he feels himself move towards her, slipping his hand down her skirt, pressing his fingers into her ass, and she gasps, and somehow he just fucking _knows_ that she'd have that surprised smirk on her face if he wasn't currently crushing it against his own, teeth and lips and foreheads pressing together.

She breaks off the kiss and looks at him, and he raises an eyebrow, and then she tilts her head to the side and starts to kiss his neck.

Maybe 'kiss' isn't the right word. She's biting and licking and sucking on the side of his neck, and it's sending shivers down his spine towards his cock like he's fourteen again, kissing a girl behind school with his hands up her shirt, and on that note he slips his hands down the side of her jeans, letting his fingers press into her thighs.

She lets out this small, needy sound, and it's all he can do not to tear off her shirt, his hardness pressing into her skirt. "Theus. Thea." she whispers into his neck. "Since you asked." And then her hands, callused and worn, are making their way up his shirt, hot, pressing into his back and tap-dancing across the curve above his ass. She bites him again and looks up at him, and again he's drowning in her eyes, swallowed up by the brown and the black and the little bright swirls in her irises.

Thea kisses him hotly, needily, and then she lets out another soft short moan from the back of her throat and this time his hands drag down her thighs and his thumbs go out and pull the skirt down until it's around her thighs, and _damn_ if that's not sexy, her skirt barely covering the bottom of her panties. And evidently she thinks it's a turn-on too, because she flickers her face to his and moves her hands down to cover his, and then she moves his hands onto her ass and he's not quite sure what to do until she moves her mouth upward and whispers, in a low voice and that _stupid sexy accent_ (he's not quite sure when it started being sexy, but he guesses it happened around when he started kissing her), "Th' skirt's zipper, you bloody fucking—" and he interrupts her, because he's _damn well_ going to win this.

"Fucking? Yeah, I am. You, in fact," and then he leans towards her, grabs her ass and drags his fingernails across the back of her panties, teasing her, not letting the skirt move down any further. "Problem?"

"You won't be fucking me for long if ya can't figure out how to take the skirt off, genius." And when he moves his fingers down, brushes their tips over the bottom of her ass and deliberately avoids her pussy, she sighs.

And then her hands are moving to her skirt, and she's unzipping it, pushing it down, and letting her panties slip down to uncover half her ass. "I'm not walking you through this," she says, and he just growls soft, deep in his throat and moves her hands onto his hips, half-inside his jeans, and she leans up into him and rubs her breasts against his chest, and he kisses her.

And, because she's pressing herself into him and they're the same height, he can feel her rubbing herself in her damp panties against his hard-on, teasing him, and it makes him so hard that he can feel his cock straining against his underwear. Her cleavage is pressing against his chest and her tits are rubbing against his, and he's distracted by that for a second before her hands start to move down his jeans, flicking the band of his boxers and settling on his thigh, and he groans into her mouth and she laughs and opens her mouth into his, letting their tongues mix, lips press and explore together.

It feels like his every nerve ending is on fire, his mouth burning where her lips scrape across it, her fingers scorching his side and charring his hair, and he takes a single step backwards to try and pry her shirt off. She lets him, hands coming out of his pants (he whimpers slightly) and up to scrape along his sides and pull his shirt over his head.

And then they're both topless, and her skirt is on the floor a couple steps back, and he's pulling her with him backwards onto the cheap motel bed so she wraps her legs around his waist and lets her bra slip a little, lets him get a little glance of her breasts.

He's about to tell her to put her hands back down her pants when she starts to move against him, her wet underwear and pussy going over his cock and letting him vaguely feel her shape through his pants, and he is _painfully _hard now and it's so hard not to just rip off his own pants and—

She laughs into his shoulder and lets her teeth scrape up to his ear. "Do it." He _definitely _doesn't blush after realizing he's said that out loud. Nope. "Please?" She lets her hands move down, pressing them into his back, folding the rim of his jeans down. "Do it yourself. Take your own damn jeans off." And she smirks. "Let me watch." And he wants to start to protest but _hot damn_ if it's not sexy, her looking down at him, asking to watch him undress himself. And he remembers the thing with the skirt, and gives her a little laugh himself, and reaches his hands down to (unwillingly) push her off.

_Might as well give her a good show, _he thinks, and so he stands up and lets her see him in profile, his chest muscles and anti-possession tattoo and the slightly wet tent in his pants, before slowly and deliberately letting his hands roll his jeans down. He hears her make another soft throaty sound, sees her lick her lips before he turns around and lets his hands push his jeans past his knees, lets the pants slide to the floor. And then, because he wants to see her reaction, he turns around and slides his boxers off, over his cock which is missing the feeling of her panties rubbing against its head, over his knees and legs. He leans down and fumbles for a pocket condom.

He feels her eyes on him, on his dick, on his face and his hands, and she lets out a moan from the back of her throat with her pupils blown. He turns around fully now, lets her see him from the front, lets her see him fumble with the wrapper and pull the condom on and touch himself accidentally, lets her see how sensitive he is.

She moans again, and stands up, and he lets himself step over to the bed. He's hardly begun to move before she is there, hips swaying and white bra undone and panties slightly askew, and he grabs her hair and pulls her face next to his and whispers "You like what you see? Fucking tease." And then it's very hard to talk anymore, because her fingers are burning down his neck and chest and running gently over his cock, caressing him with gentle strokes, skin-on-skin at last. Her fingers are scratching the delicate skin at the head of his dick, setting it on fire, teasing and satisfying all at once, and he can't bring himself to remember anything outside of her touch and lips and burning skin, and he moans loudly, biting into her neck, still pulling her backwards towards the bed.

He thrusts into her hand, eyes wide, and uses one of his hands to methodically tug the bra off her chest. She looks at him, and smirks back. "Like what you feel?" And then her hand is dropping away, and he whines softly and reaches his mouth down to kiss her breast.

"You're still a tease," he tells her tit, biting and sucking, drawing the delicate skin of her breast into his mouth and leaving marks. She whines into his shoulder and arches her back, shaking gently, so he moves on to her other breast, licking the sensitive skin and scraping his teeth over it so she feels the pleasure-pain, and then—

Her hands are both on his waist, and he begins to complain when he leans forward slightly and feels her naked pussy brushing against the head of his cock, feels a bolt of electric pleasure go through him, and he expels a cat-like needy sound that has her laughing again, her breasts and pussy and stomach vibrating against him. "Just fuck me, you—"

And then he thrusts forward, hard, and feels her tight and wet around him, feels her squeezing him and caressing his cock with the inside of her, and she keeps on making those short wanting sounds, shaky and needy. And he thrusts once, gently, and then feels her punch him, hears her whisper, "fuck me properly or don't do it," and he begins to move faster, rough and quick and messy, and he looks at her and _shit_ was that a mistake. Because she looks _sexy_ and fuckable and hot and just goddamn good like this, her head thrown back and her hair mussed and her forehead covered with sex sweat and her breasts heaving, and then she opens her eyes and they're _glowing,_ fucking flickering between her normal brown and a burningly intense and shiny version, shaking between the two like she can't decide. He moves faster, his ass clenching, his orgasm building in his stomach

He's too turned on by this to do anything but moan and move up and down, hands digging into her hair and her back, and he feels his orgasm coming on strong as he moves in her, messy thrusts now with his hair flopping in his eyes.

She looks at him and her eyes are the glowing, intense brown-gold color he saw earlier, and she says, "Fuck me like you mean it," and then she's clenching herself around him and shaking into his shoulder, coming in a series of moans and gasps and mewling sounds, and he throws back his head and shouts and comes too, explosively, letting his come fill the condom and letting hers coat him and the sheets.

He means to get up and get his things and walk out, he really does, but he doesn't remember being this tired in a long time. He pulls out, gets rid of the condom, and then just… collapses.

When he wakes up he's in her room, and she's gone.

Without a goddamn trace.

He makes a pact with himself never to think about it again.

_o.o.o.o.o.o.o_

It takes maybe two hours before he realizes that the Businesscard Woman stole both his wallet and one set of Impala keys.


End file.
